Worse still, they passed the word to Bush—Dole was on his way! So by the time the Doles packed into three freezing cars and drove to the dinner ... they were just in time to be pinned, helpless, ordered to a stop by police, while they witnessed the departure of Bush’s fifty-vehicle motorcade—cop cars, blue lights, the lead limo, the Bush-limo, VIP cars, staff vans, press buses—the incumbent magnificence arrayed against Dole.
Bush had gone, and the crowd was on its way out. Dole jumped out of his car as if he meant to stop them, but it was like trying to stop a river with your body—you’re lucky just to stand your ground. The press was set up outside in respectful ranks for Bush’s departure, and now they came, six-legged, snapping their tripods shut as they ran after Dole. Mari had her head in her hands, moaning: “This is disaster. I can’t believe we’re doing this ...”
But she thought Dole was too exhausted and stressed out to see how helpless he looked. He was trying to grab hands, say hello, fight his way into the hall. People were streaming out, bumping into him, trying to get past him. When he finally burst into the hall, there were only a few waiters and a couple of hundred people. He might as well have just sat down. It was ... gone.
When they got all the Dole-folk onto the plane—Dole had his big plane, the one the press now called the Sky Pig—the staff drifted toward the back. They left a lot of room for Dole. No one had any idea what to say to him. ... Everyone knew—thought they knew—how Dole would be.
Murphy would have liked to crawl under the seats ... especially when Bob Dole came down the aisle and dropped into the seat next to him.
“Aghh, howsa goinn’?”
Murphy loosed a flood of apology. He felt so awful, things were so fucked up, he couldn’t even tell the Senator, at that moment, what had really happened—he’d tried to look into it, just to know—maybe sabotage. “But I, uh ... technically, we just don’t know what the line filter—if it was the line filter, it would ...”
And in the middle of this heartfelt technoblather, Dole dropped one eyebrow as he glanced for an instant into Murphy’s eyes, and said:
“Agh, really liked that video. Good music!”
And above the whine of the Sky Pig’s engines, Dole’s prairie voice scraped the air, as he began to hum ... Hnnghhh gnngh hnnnnnggh ... the music from the beautiful cornfield scene:
Dut dut duunnnnghhh dghn-dughhnnnnnn!
Even true Dole-folk turned to stare in shock and fascination.
Illinois was lost.
Yut dut dut dunggghhhh ...
The Other Thing was gone.
Yut tuughh tugh tunggghhhhhh.
122
Jesseee!
JANE WAS WITH DICK for the day of the Michigan vote. In fact, that day the schedule moved them on to Milwaukee ... the Wisconsin vote, April 5, was the next hope—though not for Gephardt.
They were in a cinderblock holding room at the Mecca, Milwaukee’s big basketball arena. All the candidates would show up for a Democratic dinner. Murphy and Carrick worked pay phones in the hallway for the first news from Michigan. The holding room was horrible. Some public works genius had the thing painted smile-face yellow ... cheerful cinderblock ... and wake-the-dead fluorescent light, two hard plastic chairs, and one window that looked not onto the world, but the gray arena floor, two stories below.
“Got numbers,” Murphy said. He shut the door softly.
Dick tried to sound hearty. “Count on Murphy to bring in real numbers.”
Murphy handed him a scrap of paper. “That’s with thirteen percent of precincts.”
Dick read them out.
Dukakis ... 42
Jackson ... 36
Gephardt ... 22
He held his eyes on the paper just one beat too long. He turned to Dick Moe, with feigned interest: “That’s just about what the poll said, isn’t it?”
“That’s about it.”
Dick turned away, toward the window. He leaned against the wall, his eyes staring down on the gray hall below. It was set up with bare rectangular tables in ghostly ranks across the floor, like a graveyard.
Carrick broke the silence. “S’that where our dinner is?”
Nervous laughter.
“No,” someone said, “that’s for the Supreme Soviet ...”
“The Presidium ...”
Jane was at Dick’s side, instantly. She didn’t talk, just stood at the window, with her arm touching his. The cement gray light from that vast hall cut across one of Dick’s cheekbones like a dark scar—came right through his skin, so pale ... he looked so fragile.
Moe was talking quietly to the side of Gephardt’s face: “You might want to think if you want to say anything to the press. They’re getting numbers, too. They’ll ambush you here, outside the door.”
Gephardt nodded. He didn’t talk. He had one more event to do, before the dinner. One last time: “Give me your belief! ...”
In a minute, he squared himself in front of the door. A Secret Service man pulled it open, and the halogen fireflies blinded Gephardt as he tried to move out to the hall.
Congressman! Yer running third in Michigan! ... Congressman! Any comment on the vote in Mi—Dick, would a LOSS mean ...
He couldn’t even see who was screaming at him. He tried not to squint, tried to keep his eyes on the back of the Service man, who was shoving the fireflies back. They jiggled crazily ahead of him.
“Have to see what happens ...” Dick said to the air. “Haveta see what happens ...”
Areyagonnaquit? WHYD’YATHINKYOULOST? ... Wouldn’alossbe CONGRESSMAN! Wouldn’t you say a loss in MichiDICK! WHYD’YATHINKYA LOST?
He’d campaigned bravely through Michigan, in cold rain and snow, in arctic wind outside shuttered auto plants, in predawn darkness at factory gates ... and in sadness.
In the end, the UAW took a dive on Dick. He’d come to them after Super Tuesday, with the smell of loss upon him. “Well, uh, you know, Congressman, we’ve decided we really can’t, uh, endorse a specific candidate at this point in the process ...” Then Douglas Fraser, past president of the UAW, showed up in a Dukakis ad, applauding Michael’s brave new tough talk on trade.
The networks started pulling their crews off Dick’s bus—they had their own tracking polls. The reporters couldn’t bear to tell him straight. But they’d mention, offhand one day, how it just occurred to them—they didn’t have a single photograph of them and Dick, together, you know ... would he mind posing, just for a minute? ... Dick would oblige, smiling big, like they’d come to be best friends ... on the way to the White House.
The press that was left asked him every day, every hour: What percentage would he have to win in Michigan? Didn’t he have to win? Wouldn’t he quit if he didn’t win? When was he gonna quit?
“I think we’ll do well ...” he’d say.
“I think we’ll do very well ...”
Then he’d get off his bus, and tell the crowd at the next Democratic club:
Give me your vision!
Give me your belief!
... and March 26th will be the day of the MICHIGAN MIRACLE!
But Dick was past March 26th, past miracles:
“You know, I told Jane last night, I’m looking forward to everything we’re gonna do. We get that back now ... we never would have had a normal life. It’s absolutely impossible. I couldn’t take my kids to the movies, the store, buy them a pair of gloves ...
“We’d have nothing.
“You know, Matt’s going to be gone in another year. He really needs me now. I called him, the other night, he said, ‘Dad, how you doing?’ I said, ‘Well, we’re at seventeen points in the polls—he’s got thirty-five.’ He says, ‘You can do it, Dad!’ ...
“I want to spend a lot of time with him now. He needs me now.” Dick raised a finger, like he did in a speech when he wanted to pound home one point: “He’s gonna know, before he leaves ... I’m there.”
Then the chipmunks leapt on his cheeks: Hackhackhackheeee ... “I’m not in the vacuum tub
e!
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
They had a hotel room to wait an hour or two, before the dinner. It seemed like a long time. Dick flicked on the TV. There was Gore, Defender of the Working Man.
“We oughta sell him our ads.”
“Deficit reduction. We’ll sell ’em our ads.”
Jane said: “What time do we have to go down there?”
“Eight, maybe eight-thirty ... it keeps getting later.” All the candidates were speaking, in turn, at the dinner. A dozen of Dick’s Advance pack, the kids, had straggled into Wisconsin. They knew, by now, they didn’t have to come ... they hadn’t been paid for a month. But they came. They were all at the Mecca. They kept phoning word to his hotel—minute-by-minute updates, like it was the Democratic convention.
Jane said: “Do we have to work the tables?”
There was laughter.
“Why not?” she said. “I’ll get withdrawal symptoms.” She was giggling, pawing the air, grabbing for make-believe hands.
“Somebody get her a Valium.”
“I hope it’s a nice day tomorrow ...” That was Dick. He meant in Virginia. He wanted to sleep late, and wake in sunshine.
The screen was flashing numbers.
Dukakis ... 38
Jackson ... 34
Gephardt ... 21
Simon ... 4
Gore ... 3
Someone said, to break the silence: “Simon’s beating Gore.”
“Good.”
“Jackson’s cleaning up in Detroit. He could win this ...”
“I hope it’s a nice day tomorrow. ... When do we get rid of the Service?”
“Monday.”
“Do you have to tell them in writing? Or can you just walk out to the trailer and say, ‘Guys ...’ ” Jane jerked her thumb in the air.
Dick was laughing. He stood up. “That’s it, guys! ... We’re goin’ t’the five-and-dime!”
Outside the grisly holding room, in the Mecca, the killers were conferring with the Service. “When does he go in?”
“They said eight,” the Service man said.
“No,” Murphy said. “Forget the tables. He doesn’t need to sit and listen to those assholes speak. Get him on, get him out. He doesn’t have to talk to anyone tonight.”
But he did have to talk. Barry Wyatt, wizard of Advance, came into the holding room, and his pack, a dozen kids, all talked their way in behind him. Now, sadly, sweetly, they were trying to say goodbye to Dick. “Thank you for the opportunity,” said a young man named Mark Stump. “I learned from you. So you are in me now.”
Dick went around the quiet room, shaking hands with each. He knew every name. Then he stood with his back to a wall and held up a hand. He started to tell them they had to go on ... this was about more than him ... more than what they’d done for him.
Dick’s voice was steady and brave. He wanted them to see this as a start—the only way this made sense—as a cause ... this loss, his loss, did not matter.
Then, a noise ... Dick stopped. The door opened ... and it was filled with Jesse Jackson.
Jesse was huge that night: he was blowing Duke away in Michigan—a late surge from the central cities, a flood tide—it wasn’t even close. And Jackson, always a presence, was on this night enlarged, engorged by triumph. In the doorway, his big face seemed to give off light. His suit was so dark blue, it looked black. He had a red tie, a red pocket handkerchief, and a thousand-watt smile.
“Jesseee!” Dick came across the room, South St. Louis polite ... he held his hand out in front of him.
But Jackson spread his arms. And he gathered Dick in a bear hug that disappeared him. All they could see was the reddish top of Gephardt’s head.
Jesse Jackson knew loss. He knew what was going on in that room. And there was, in his embrace, not just his triumph of that night, but his understanding of Dick’s effort, the years ... the hope, the exhaustion, the loss.
He would not let go.
Gephardt’s head wiggled briefly. Then it settled against Jackson’s suit.
Jesse would not let go.
And just for a short while, half a minute, perhaps ... the only time that night ... on the breast of the only man in that room who could really understand, Dick Gephardt wept.
123
The Priesthood Is Obeyed
MICHAEL HAD A PROBLEM. He’d lost to Jesse Jackson. He’d lost big—two-to-one. He had allowed momentum to slip into the hands of a black man who’d never held elective office, who owed nothing to the elders of the Party, and who, the Priests of the Process were convinced, had no chance as the nominee.
Accordingly, the Priesthood discovered:
Dukakis was uninspired.
Dukakis was arrogant and distant.
Dukakis had nothing to say.
That’s because he lost. In fact, Michael had lost two in a row—big, visible whiffs:
First, he steamed into Illinois, fresh from his Super Tuesday triumphs, and got big crowds—Chicago loves a rally. Back on Chauncy Street, the plan was for Dukakis to duck Illinois. Paul Simon was a native son, fighting for his political life. Jesse Jackson lived in Chicago, and he’d have a lock on a quarter of the vote. But in his own breast, Dukakis was the nominee-to-be. He wasn’t gonna duck! (What kinda respect for the process would that show?) Anyway, what about those crowds? They loved him! ... He insisted: “Something’s happening out there. We’re really connecting. ...” So he went all out, spent $400,000, and got ... nowhere. Simon won, Jackson got second. Delegates for Dukakis—zero.
By the next week, in Michigan, Michael was acting like the inevitable nominee. Actually, he wasn’t in Michigan. He was in his State House, or flying coast-to-coast, collecting more money, posing for pictures with the big pols endorsing him. He meant to put the lie to this brokered-convention pipe dream ... and demonstrate that responsible Democrats, the duly elected representatives of the Party, wanted to unite behind a serious candidate (the kinda guy he was). So one morning he was in New Jersey—had a nice picture taken with Bill Bradley ... and that night, California—another $200,000 dinner ... maybe in the middle, he’d stop in Michigan—refueling. One day he flew in to receive the endorsement of Michigan’s Senator Don Riegle ... in return for which, Michael endorsed Riegle’s trade bill (Son of Gephardt). ... So Dukakis was a flip-flop and a panderer, too. ... Anyway, Jackson stomped him big-time, and Michael had a problem.
STUNNED PARTY LEADER QUESTION DUKAKIS’ ABILITY TO COMPETE, said the headline on the front of The Washington Post. The next day, it was: DUKAKIS TOLD TO SHARPEN MESSAGE. The story was filled with suggestions from politicians and consultants. Dukakis faced a must-win in Wisconsin on April 5 ... or Armageddon in New York, on April 19. He had to provide “a compelling rationale for his candidacy.” He had to “draw the distinctions” between himself and Jackson. Estrich had a stack of message slips from people who wanted to tell her more of the same.
Everybody knew Dukakis had a problem ... except Dukakis. He didn’t have any problem. Illinois, he ran against two favorite sons. He started late—no time to organize. ... Michigan was crazy—the Party ran the caucuses, not the government—Jesse’s people musta voted five times apiece! It was a fluke! ... So when Estrich showed up with a two-page memo—changes in the campaign plan for Wisconsin (new speech, new ads, new schedule)—Michael said no. They were correct! They were on track! Steady as she goes!
“No, that’s not what I mean,” said Estrich. “You’re right. You don’t have to change ... but when you lose, you get a lot of advice. I’m getting a lot of advice.”
Michael was nodding. “Yeah ... yeah.” He’d had his fill of advice, too.
“But when you get that much advice, you have to look like you’re taking some advice ...”
“Yeah ...”
“... and it’s got to look like you’re willing to listen ...”
At last, she rang the right bell. He looked over the memo again.
“Okay,” he said. “What else?”
So Michael got a new speech (wherein he actually criticized Reagan for undermining American workers!) ... new ads (pictures of farms at auctions, chained factory gates, little girls hunting food in garbage cans) ... a tough schedule, day after day in Wisconsin (factories, union halls, ethnic clubs) ... and no more hunting for endorsements.
It was (and would be) the only time in her tenure when Susan went to him with a plan from Chauncy Street ... and he read it, got it, and did it—he even drank a beer with some guys in Milwaukee!
It was great fun. And it worked.
Dukakis beat Jackson in Wisconsin by twenty percent. Of course, that was the same spread the polls showed the week before. Dukakis always thought he was going to win.
But the press noted his changes with satisfaction. The Priesthood was obeyed, the process well served, and Michael had his must-win, on the way to New York.
Except he wouldn’t go to New York. He blew off his schedule, went back to the State House.
His health insurance bill was up for a vote.
That’s what this campaign was about—this campaign, the Oval Office, that job ... it was all about governing. ... That’s what Mike Dukakis could do.
What It Takes Page 134
